


The Art of Looking for Trouble

by Nestra



Series: Yuletide Stories [23]
Category: The Music Man (1962)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: "Well," Marian said briskly. "You're going to need some kind of respectable employment."
Relationships: Harold Hill/Marian Paroo
Series: Yuletide Stories [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534451
Comments: 30
Kudos: 45
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Art of Looking for Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/gifts).



> Happy yuletide, spyglass! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> This is largely based on the 1962 movie, though I did also watch the TV version with Matthew Broderick and Kristen Chenoweth. That's one lovely bit of casting (her) and one deeply terrible one (him). And like you, I'm excited for the upcoming revival, because casting Hugh Jackman seems like it could work very well. (And, you know, Hugh Jackman.)
> 
> I extrapolated a couple of things here. First, I assume it's August, because July 4th takes place early in the show, and it takes about a month to get the uniforms in for the boys. Second, I figure for the purposes of "real life", the action ends with the scene in the gymnasium, not with the magical transformation of the marching band.
> 
> Title from a quote by Ernest Benn.

"Well," Marian said briskly. "You're going to need some kind of respectable employment."

"Not that!" Harold protested, clutching his chest in mock dismay. "Anything but that!"

They sat together on the porch steps, and through the open windows, Harold could hear Mrs. Paroo bustling inside, shooing Winthrop to bed. If she occasionally came close enough to eavesdrop, or peer out the window and see how close they were sitting—well, their backs were to the window, and they couldn't see her.

He kept waiting to feel trapped, backed into a corner with no good options. But he'd done it. He'd chosen to stay, knowing what would happen. And all he felt was contentment. Maybe it pinched him a little, like a brand-new pair of shoes that he hadn't quite broken in yet. But he hoped he'd get used to it.

Marian nudged her knee against his. "How do you expect to pay everyone back without a job?"

"But Marian, they paid for instruments and uniforms. They have instruments and uniforms. All I have to do is send that money where it's supposed to go, rather than skipping town with it."

"They gave you that money for a band," Marian scolded. "And despite what happened tonight, and how pleased those parents were, you're not truly a band director."

"I do know that, my dear little librarian." He tapped her, with just the lightest touch, on the tip of her adorably pert nose. "I thought the next step might be to advertise for a qualified band director to come to town. I do have a bit of money saved up, enough to offer a few months of salary, if you think the city might contribute to the cost after that."

"I suppose it's worth proposing," she said, a little doubtfully. "I don't think Mayor Shinn likes you very much."

"Mayor Shinn isn't the only person who makes decisions in this town." Once, a statement like that would have had some menace behind it. He'd never hurt anyone, but he'd known when and where to apply the necessary leverage to get things moving his way. But foolish Mayor Shinn was about as ineffective a politician as he'd ever come across. He had no worries that Shinn would stand in the way of anything he wanted to do.

"It would be nice if the boys could continue with the band." She hummed absently while smoothing her skirt over her knees. The Minuet in G, of course. He hoped a new band instructor would start with teaching the band a new piece. Something by Sousa, perhaps. A good, solid march.

"I don't see Winthrop getting so down again, regardless of what happens with the band," he offered. "I'm not the boy's father, and I'm have no intentions of trying to be a replacement, but speaking as someone who's gotten to know him pretty well over the last month—"

"I do hope you're right. It's been so difficult, a boy of his age losing his father. Mother and I have done our best, of course."

"I'm sure he's wanted for nothing."

"Speaking of Winthrop…" She trailed off, and for a moment, all he heard was the sounds of small-town life. Crickets chirping, a woman the next street over calling for her cat, noise from the park still carrying in the warm August night.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"When Winthrop asked you, you said that you always think there's a band. What did you mean?"

He took a moment to think, trying to figure out how to explain the life he'd lived since he was thirteen. "There's a saying among the more disreputable traveling salesmen. 'You can't con an honest man.' The things I sold were always a little bit impossible. Steam-powered automobiles and hair tonics, shares in a secret gold mine, the lost treasures of Katmandu. In their hearts, the people always knew that. That if they let themselves stop and think, they'd see the truth. And imaginary gold mines are far more fun to believe in than boring old truth."

He waited for her to speak, to shame him for what he'd done. Or worse, to soothe him and assure him that _all that was in the past, Harold_ , or _you're different now, Harold_. But she didn't, and maybe she understood.

"But the other side of that—I had to believe it too. You can't con an honest man, but you can't swindle people without believing in your heart, just a little bit, that what you're selling actually exists."

She nodded, golden hair spilling over shoulder. "It sounds like how I feel—felt about you. I knew you were a phony, almost from the beginning, but Winthrop was so happy, and I just...chose to put that aside. To take what you could give him, and me, and be happy with that."

"It was more than I deserved," Harold replied.

She shook her head, turning to face him, as earnest as she could be. "Don't you see, it doesn't matter what you deserved. My love was mine to give you, and I did."

Harold simply sat there, on the steps of an unassuming house in a Midwestern town, on a summer night that could have been any other night. But this night had given him Marian, and that made it a night unlike any one he'd ever lived in his whole sorry life.

"You still could leave," Marian offered him. "Once you've settled matters with the town. What I mean to say is, I wouldn't hold you to anything you said or promised while you—while we—"

Harold placed a hand over hers, lying still on her knees. "That would be pretty rotten, after you stood up for me in front of the town. But I suppose I can't blame you for doubting. No, I'm here to stay, Miss Marian, if you'll have me."

Her face bloomed like a flower, color in her cheeks and sparkles in her eyes. "Oh, I will, Harold."

After a quick check to make sure Mrs. Paroo wasn't at the window, and no other River City citizens were wandering through the streets, he kissed her. He'd given kisses that meant hello and goodbye, plenty of kisses that meant nothing, and even a few that meant I love you, but he'd never made a promise with a kiss before.

They eased apart and looked at each other with slightly ridiculous smiles before he returned to her original topic. "You're right, though. If I'm to eventually propose to the town's librarian, I need gainful employment."

Marian blushed at the mention of marriage, but focused on the topic at hand. "What are your skills?"

He thought for a moment. "I'm a pretty decent salesman, if I do say so myself. The local merchants might be a bit reluctant to take me on, though."

"Yes, that might not be the best idea."

"I've shined shoes, groomed horses, repaired furniture and painted fences. But my strongest assets are a quick mind and a nimble tongue. It's a little late in life for law school. Preacher, perhaps? Insurance salesman?"

She gasped. "Harold! I've got it!"

"Got what?"

"The perfect job for you. And there will be an opportunity in a few months, if you can take it. But of course you can. Oh, you'll do so well at it."

"Are you going to tell me?"

In her satisfied smile, he could see all the parts of her that he loved—the fine intellect, the caring heart, the well-hidden sense of mischief, the civic pride, and, of course, the Iowa stubbornness. "You'll be Mayor, of course."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Art of Looking for Trouble | written by Nestra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148960) by [Tipsy_Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty)




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